


A Million Dreams by PT Barnum

by SilverLynxx



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Everyone is Smitten, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-21 10:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13738569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLynxx/pseuds/SilverLynxx
Summary: "I'm sorry, I'd happily spend all day in here, but I really have to go.""Take this," Phineas hums, plucking a red leather-bound book with gold detail from the shelf. He doesn't miss the way the man's eyebrows raise at the brazen cover as he casts Phineas a dubious look."A Million Dreams by PT Barnum?" he queries. Phineas nods, grinning broadly.





	1. Glimpse My Cover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Barlyle (spideys_ass)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideys_ass/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was generated in a 30 minute writing sprint, dedicated to [@Carlyles-ass](https://carlyles-ass.tumblr.com/) for suggesting the library/bookstore prompt! As it's a simple and light-hearted piece (because I rarely ever do period-shift AUs) I decided I would most likely carry it on for 2-3 chapters. I hope you enjoy!  
>   
>  **Edit** \- Absolutely stunning moodboards created by [@Freakygirlsworld](https://freakygirlsworld.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, you can check them out in fullsize here!
> 
>   
>  [A Million Dreams By PT Barnum - Moodboards](https://freakygirlsworld.tumblr.com/post/171687252802/for-incredibly-talented-silverlynxx-thank-you-so#notes)   
> 

A quiet sigh drifts from the back of the cosy old bookstore, seemingly from a patron lost several rows deep in the shelves. Phineas ignores it.

Reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, Phineas scans the open book laid flat on the counter, framed by sheets of paper, post-it notes curling at the edges, and coffee cup rings aplenty. Licking his thumb to flick the page, he stops mid-movement as another increasingly frustrated sigh arises from the narrow alleyway of books.

Curiosity piqued, Phineas removes his reading glasses and gives his waistcoat a little tug at the bottom before wandering into the familiar haven, soothed by the scent of ink and aged paper. Books - new and old, worn by time and eager minds - clutter the antique wooden bookcases that create the intimate maze, stacked in a fanciful manner reminiscent of the owner.

“Can I be of assistance?” Phineas queries, leaning casually, arms folded, against a precariously creaking shelf. He’s presented with a younger man, handsome, with bright clever eyes and neatly styled hair. His shirt is crisp and white, his trousers pressed, his tie loosened; a stark contrast to Phineas’ more casual and quirky shirt and waistcoat attire. He was a businessman if Phineas had ever clapped eyes on one, but certainly not the average suit that wandered into his store by accident, or to seek shelter from the weather.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry if I disturbed you, I’m just-“

He glances at his watch and murmurs a swear under his breath. Phineas quirks a brow, amused. “I’m late, I’m sorry.”

The man is frazzled and making to leave in a hurry, so Phineas isn’t sure what inspires him to reach out and gently clasp the younger man’s shoulder.

“Without a book? You look like a man out of place without one,” he guesses, assured by the way those blue eyes glance longingly at the shelves.

“I’m sorry, I’d happily spend all day in here, but I really have to go.”

“Take this,” Phineas hums, plucking a red leather-bound book with gold detail from the shelf.

He doesn’t miss the way the man’s eyebrows raise at the brazen cover as he casts Phineas a dubious look.

“A Million Dreams by PT Barnum?” he queries.

Phineas nods with a broad, crooked grin. “You’re late, so take it, keep your mind busy,” he encourages, enjoying the way the man’s surprise shifts to appreciation, somehow making him even more stunning.

“That’s... that’s very kind, thank you.” He tucks the book under his arm, judgement for the cover forgotten.

“But…”

Phineas delights in the way the man looks at him, cautious but intrigued. “In return, you have to come back and tell me what you think.” He delights even more in the man’s radiant smile.

“You have yourself a deal, Mr…?”

“Phineas,” he answers, taking his hand.

“Phineas,” the younger repeats. “Phillip Carlyle.”

The name resonates through him.

“Well, I hope you have a lovely day, Phillip.” He drops his voice an octave with a mischievous smile, “I look forward to seeing you again.” He gives the man’s hand a squeeze and releases him, not missing the slight flush to Phillip’s cheeks.

Clearing his throat, Phillip nods and echoes his goodbye before he’s quickly vacating the bookstore for his late engagement, Phineas’ gaze hot on his heels.

Phineas chuckles, skirting his way back to his desk to continue his reading, but finds his thoughts taken up instead by one Phillip Carlyle.

 

    


	2. My Words a Tome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out longer than anticipated. I was uncertain about my characterisation in this one, dabbling with a modern au, so I hope it stays true.

Phineas tries not to be disappointed when the alluring man doesn’t return the next day, or the day after. He tries to reason that it would take him at least a little time to read the book, but as a third, fourth, and fifth day rolls past, Phineas’ hope that Phillip would return begins to dwindle. After all, how long did it really take to read one book?

The bookshop is closed on Sunday.

It’s Tuesday, a whole week since the brief exchange, when Lettie finally has enough of Phineas’ moping.

“PT.” She stands at the end of the shambolic - homely - counter that Phineas sits behind, dressed in one of his finer red waistcoats and gazing intently at the door with a faraway look to his eye. It isn’t even the look that promised a new necromantic tale or captivating novella plotline that PT was so known for; it was rather the look of a man lost to his own pining.

 _“Barnum.”_ She smacks the counter for good measure.

The man jolts, clearing his throat as he shuffles a few papers between his hands in a thin facade of looking productive. Lettie smirks and leans on the desk, surveying the flustered man with fondness. “It’s been a week now, PT. I don’t know if he’s coming back or not, but you need to pull yourself together.” He returns her stern look with his own indignant one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He flashes the bearded woman one of his brilliant grins which only shrinks in the face of her no-bullshit look. He should know better than to try that with Lettie.

“Look, hun, even if you hadn’t accosted me the moment I walked in here to gush over every little detail that brilliant mind of yours had memorised about this guy, your pining would have been a hell of a giveaway.” She holds up her finger to hush his immediate protests. “Whenever that bell goes you’re like a dog at dinner time; I haven’t seen you cross the store from the backroom to the counter so fast since your very first customer.”

Phineas runs a hand through his hair; he‘s not able to meet the woman’s eye and his smile is abashed.

“And every time it isn’t this _‘pulchritudinous embodiment of perfection’-”_ Phineas snorts as she turns his own florid description back on him, “-you slink away like Bennet himself is standing there with a foreclosure notice.”

Phineas scowls at the mere mention of the man; one of the most esteemed publishers in the city who had torn Phineas’ first manuscript to shreds and told him he would never publish anything more significant or complex than a children’s book, let alone a novel. He feels Lettie’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him from his slow brooding descent, and he lets her bright-eyed smile buoy him.

“For your sake, PT, I hope he comes back, but in the meantime you still have a store to run, _and_ a book to write,” she adds with a smirk. Phineas’ eyes crinkle with good humour as he shrugs, because, yes, he had been procrastinating his latest draft while sulking. “Now, go clear a shelf or something, you’ve been sat here like a spare prick at a wedding all morning.”

The phrase startles a deep laugh out of Phineas and he regards her with appreciation. “You’re always so sensible,” he laments with a dramatic sigh, pushing himself to his feet and disappearing among the shelves as instructed.

Her laughter follows him, sweet and raucous. “Someone here has to be, hun”

She turns as the bell above the door jingles.

“Oh, good morning.” The surprise is evident in the customer’s voice, but for the first time in Lettie’s life she doesn’t believe it’s because of her neatly manicured beard, more the man was expecting to find someone else.

Lettie does a quick assessment. Handsome, with a mature but slightly boyish face, and smartly dressed in a casual white shirt under a navy cashmere vest, dark slacks, and polished black shoes. In combination with his neatly combed hair and expressive baby blue eyes, Lettie might just have said he looked like the pulchritudinous embodiment of perfection.

She grins, leaning on the counter more casually.

“Good morning, hun, how can I help you today?” her glee only swells in her breast when the younger man shifts under her gaze, casting a furtive glance into the shop before offering her a small yet charming smile.

“I’m sorry, I was looking for-”

“Phillip!”

Suddenly Phineas is there, hands on Lettie’s shoulder and steering her away from behind the counter. “Ah, Lettie, would you mind? There was that thing, in the back, that has to– you know...” He waves his hand in a desperate bid to shoo her.

Lettie raises her eyebrows at the bumbling dismissal and has half a mind to plant herself right there just to show Barnum what for, but she succumbs to the pleading in his eyes. She never could resist that smitten face when he had it.

“Of course, I’ll deal with that thing in the back that has to- _you know,”_ she echoes, the laughter ringing in her words as she wanders towards the back of the store, leaving Phineas with an equally amused Phillip.

“So, what is this thing in the back that has to- _you know?”_ Phillip queries with a distinctly teasing note, and Phineas shrugs helplessly with an unapologetic smile.

“You came back,” he says instead, cocking his head and sounding only slightly accusing.

Phillip clears his throat guiltily, but Phineas is fascinated by the smile that plays on his pink Cupid’s bow lips, perhaps reassured that Phineas had called him out on his absence.

“I apologise, I intended to return sooner… I would actually like another copy of the book, and pay for it this time, of course.”

“Did you lose it?” Phineas leans forward on the desk, a little disheartened.

Phillip laughs. “God no.” He pulls the book from his satchel, an elegant brown case with his initials embossed into the leather, and places the book on the counter. With a shared look and non-verbal exchange in which Phillip nods his consent, Phineas takes the book in hand. The cover is still immaculate, exactly like the day he’d gifted it to Phillip, and Phineas finds himself pleased by the care shown to it. He flips the book open and the difference floors him.

The pages themselves are well read, which is impressive for a week, and many have been dog-eared. Phineas thumbs through the pages. Judging from the frequency the man had folded the corners, he was a night reader, but snuck in pages throughout the day. And there was writing. _Phillip’s_ writing. Notes scrawled in the margins in a stunning yet near incomprehensible cursive, streaks of pastel highlighter picking out words and phrases, sometimes entire paragraphs where he’d gotten carried away.

His eyes are drawn to a particular line that had not only been highlighted, but framed by a box of deliberate pen-strokes. _‘They don’t understand you, but they will.’_ Phineas runs his thumb over the quote, eyes flicking up to regard the man. The book in his hands suddenly feels strangely personal. _Intimate._

“A second book?” he hums curiously. The soft dusting of colour across Phillip’s cheeks is becoming.

“I keep an extra copy of some books so I can recommend them. That way I don’t have to worry about getting it back,” He shrugs. _This one is mine,_ goes unsaid.

A broad grin spreads across Phineas’ lips. “Well, how about...” he wanders amongst the shelves, plucking out another audaciously red and gold leather-bound book. He situates himself back behind the counter and lies the new book down between them. “You take this one, and rather than pay for it, you buy me a coffee?” he offers.

Phillip blinks, regarding Phineas for a moment as the older man confidently holds his gaze. Finally, Phillip shakes his head.

“No, I’m sorry.” He drops a twenty onto the counter.

Phineas stares at the note, trying not to look too deflated as he forces himself to pick it up and process the purchase in uncharacteristic silence. He clears his throat, putting the change in Phillip’s outstretched hand.

“Well-"

“How about I buy you a coffee for taking so long to come back?” Phillip interrupts. His words are easy, spoken with the aplomb of a young and handsome man, but the way his throat works as he swallows his nerves is far more telling to Phineas’ keen eye.

Phineas doesn’t respond immediately and lets Phillip squirm a little, because really the little shit deserved it for his stunt. When he sees the man begin to subtly fidget, he treats Phillip to a blinding smile.

“I would like that.”

Phillip grins through his relieved exhale. “Good. I mean- I’m glad.”

Suitably endeared, Phineas leans back. “Lettie, I know you’re hiding behind that bookshelf. I’m going out, I’ll be back in an hour!” he calls, whipping his coat off the back of his chair and pulling it on as he rounds the desk. Phillip retrieves his new book, slotting it away in his satchel, and follows Phineas out of the bookstore and down the street, perhaps a step closer to each other than they strictly needed to be.


	3. Know My Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to [Picnokinesis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/picnokinesis) for proofreading! And to [PaperChimes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paperchimes) for their support and appreciation for this chapter!
> 
> So this has grown a little more than expected and has branched to four(?) chapters rather than three. I hope you enjoy!

They find a nearby coffee shop just off the high street; a little independent hole-in-the-wall imbued with the aroma of fresh coffee beans, with warm mocha walls and soft green accents. They choose a table by the window and sink into the armchairs with their drinks, the world outside passing them by as people bustle past the glass, going about their day.

“You wanted me to ask you out for coffee,” Phillip comments, staring pointedly at the cream-topped chocolate concoction the man had actually ordered. Phineas gives him another grin, still unrepentant.

“I think you have enough coffee there for the both of us.”

A short laugh escapes Phillip, unable to deny it as they both eye the triple-shot macchiato sat innocently on the coffee table between them. Upon ordering, Phineas may have suggested simply taking the coffee in a drip for efficiency.

“I think I’ve just built up a tolerance,” Phillip admits.

“Early mornings?”

“And long nights.”

Phineas hums, intrigued. He wonders exactly how accurate his first assumption of the man had been. He was indeed well-dressed, and seemingly well-off if his finely tailored clothing and initialled satchel were anything to go by. But still Phineas was certain this man wasn’t your typical suit. A lawyer, a CEO; nothing really seemed to fit his warm eyes and easy, cheeky smile.

Phineas’ heart skips when those same blue eyes narrow and Phillip’s smirk twitches a bit wider.

“What are you trying to work out?”

Phineas doesn’t falter at the call out, instead he continues to appraise him, even more openly in fact, as he tries to determine exactly who this exquisite man was.

“You’re not a consultant… or a marketer.”

Phillip’s eyes light up when he realises Phineas’ game. He leans back in his chair, regarding Phineas with amusement he doesn’t try to hide. “Not even close,” he teases.

“Definitely not an attorney.”

“Definitely not,” Phillip agrees.

“Curator?”

Phillip shakes his head, smiling.

“You’re too pleasant to be in exec.”

Phillip’s laugh is surprised and pleasant, making Phineas smile.

Phineas clicks his tongue, eyes roving the man more closely. It’s with chagrin Phineas realises he’s allowed his own preconceptions to mislead him. While Phillip certainly dressed for a corporate position, his attire possessed a casualness previously hidden to him behind the refinery and expense; a subtle impression of liberty in the weave of his vest and his open collar. There was something inherently innovative about him, a visionary slowly loosing the tailored bonds of bureaucratic sculpting, and that enticed Phineas like fire did a moth.

“Something inspired,” Phineas breathes, now regarding Phillip with such intensity he’s not just seeing him anymore but looking _into_ him, trying to discern the very foundations that made him Phillip Carlyle.

“Closer,” Phillip quietly concedes, as if speaking too loudly will fracture the sudden but not unwelcome tension that had settled between them.

“ _They don’t understand you, but they will.”_ Phineas murmurs the quote under his breath, recalling the way it had been highlighted so thoroughly and with such certainty. He doesn’t miss Phillip’s fleeting look of surprise, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Phineas understands then, he would never guess. The man before him was transitioning, transcending; a reborn butterfly finally stripping itself of its chrysalis.

Phineas huffs and leans back, dispelling the sense of gravity that had overcome them. He stares at Phillip seriously until his expression cracks into a grin and he holds up his hands in submission.

“I admit defeat. Tell me.”

Phillip snorts, “You didn’t even try.”

“I _always_ try, otherwise it’s not worth the attempt in the first place,” Phineas corrects amiably.

Phillip muses over the point then sits forward again, rolling a shoulder nonchalantly, “I’m a playwright.”

He doesn’t frame it with modesty or say it in a particular manner, but the way he meets Phineas’ eye with a certain fire, and how he sets his jaw, Phillip is clearly used to following this admission with a defence.

Now seeing the whole picture, Barnum really takes Phillip in, thinking back to the messy, discourteous, and blatantly _artful_ defacing of his book, his clever joyful eyes, and easy-coming smile. Phineas acknowledges the affluent clothing and the lifestyle of a socialite, but also the fervour of a man fighting to free himself of its restrictions.

“Yes, you are.”

Phillip thaws, thrown by the admiration in Phineas’ words and the openness of his pleased expression. He flushes under the attention, and Phineas suddenly wants to know everything about him; every thought, every tick, every little pleasure that made Phillip’s cheeks dimple and his nose wrinkle when he laughed.

They hold each other’s gaze for a long tentative moment until Phillip caves, averting his eyes with a pleased smile. Phineas’ eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins. Rather than look away, he savours the feeling of peace and the thrilling undercurrent of their shared moment, knowing he was well and truly smitten.

They cradle and sip their drinks through the comfortable pause, pretending they aren’t covertly glancing at each other over the rims of their coffee cups, or sharing coy smiles when they inevitably catch the other looking.

“So.” Barnum’s tenor washes over the quiet ambience of the café. “The book,” he offers, raising a brow in question. The knot of anticipation in Phineas’ chest had only grown since he’d watched Phillip leave with his book on that first day, and with the apprehension that now joined it, he felt like his lungs were compressing with lack of room.

Phillip’s eyes light up. He’s once again removing the book from his satchel, only this time he brings it to rest on his lap, as if he requires it to focus his thoughts. The pad of his finger absently traces the gold impression of _P. T. Barnum_ on the cover, and Phineas tries to ignore the thrilling and frankly ridiculous flutter he feels in his stomach.

“Really, I feel I should thank you,” Phillip grins. “I’ll admit it’s not a book I would have instinctively chosen.”

“Now, don’t tell me you’re a man who judges a book by its cover, Mr. Carlyle.”

Phillip laughs. “I may have had some… initial prejudices,” he admits.

“You dog-ear pages _and_ judge books that dare to be bold.” Phineas clicks his tongue in mock-disappointment, “You’re building quite an adverse case against yourself.” Phineas grins even wider when Phillip waggles the audaciously red and gold book at him with an arched brow.

“Bold may be an understatement,” he counters, before his smirk levels into something markedly more fond. “Do you know those books — the ones tucked away in the corners of bookshelves, hidden away in old second-hand stores, the ones that are so easy to glance over — those nondescript books that somehow still find their way into your hands and manage to shift your entire perspective of the world…” As he speaks, his words are coloured with reminiscence; Phineas knows those books well.

Phillip places the leather-bound book back in his lap, absently brushing the cover again. “I read this five times.”

“ _Five?_ ” Phineas expels in a startled breath; _A Million Dreams_ wasn’t exactly a rival for Proust, but neither was it a quick read.

Phillip shrugs, his sliver of a smile caught between embarrassment and pride. “I could have probably managed six, but it was a busy week.”

Phineas barks out a laugh. He’s delighted and charmed and _riveted —_ by the man himself, but also by the reverence with which he speaks, about life, about _books_ , about _his_ book.

“Would you consider yourself a dreamer?” Barnum asks suddenly. Phillip pauses, considering the question. After a beat of hesitation he seems to find an answer as he meets Phineas’ eyes.

“If you had asked me last week, I would have said I had little inclination to lose myself to dreams.”

“And now?” Barnum leans forward slightly, intently.

Phillip rubs the back of his neck. Careful. Thoughtful. “Now… I think I would.”

Phineas beams, and Phillip picks up his cup to hide his smile behind it. There’s a brief pause, and by the way Phillip tentatively drums a beat on to the book cover, he surmises there’s more to come.

“I was raised in a very… patrician household; high-stakes business, _stifling_ propriety.”

“No place for dreamers?” Phineas supplies.

“No place for dreams,” Phillip affirms with a mocking smile. Phineas decides he likes the man’s impish smirk so much more. “As you can imagine, my family were sceptical at best about my career, derogatory at worst; my father almost had an aneurysm when he found out I was interested in the arts beyond collecting an arsenal of sixteenth century Titian.”

Phineas toasts his drink with raised eyebrows, “Bless you.” Phillip snorts.

“There’s been times it’s been hard, you know?” Phillip detracts. “Times were I’ve asked myself if pursuing this… dream is worth the career setbacks and pressure from my family. And this book, it’s not Steinbeck or Homer, but it was exactly what I needed. The biography of a relentless and remarkable dreamer to connect with, to prove there’s more to an otherwise saturnine existence, that —”

“—dreams hold power,” Barnum finishes.

“Yes,” Phillip breathes, his own lips pleasantly curled at the corners. “That I can achieve anything I want.”

With light dancing in his eyes, Barnum holds out an expectant hand. Curious, Phillip surrenders the book; his own copy, the one worn from use within a week, dog-eared and scrupulously annotated, streaked with highlighter-ink that meticulously picked out every sentiment that had resonated with him.

He glances up at Phillip, holding his gaze as he pulls his best fountain pen from his breast pocket and uncaps it, holding the lid between his lips. Phillip shifts as Phineas flips open the book to the first page, largely blank save for his own declamatory dedication, and presses the pen to paper.

To his credit, Phillip remains seated and quiet throughout, though the tension radiating from him amuses Phineas greatly. Giving his inked inscription time to dry, Barnum flips the book closed and returns it.

“Ah ah,” he chides lightly when Phillip immediately goes to open the cover. Barnum grins, tucking his coat under his arm. “I’m afraid I’m long overdue to return to Lettie, but I’ve had a fantastic time.” He stands and hesitates, sweeping an assessing look over the playwright. “I hope we can do this again soon.” Then boldly he leans down, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to Phillip’s cheek. He savours the brief pressure and the warm rush of Phillip’s breath against his neck before he pulls away.

Heart in his throat, Phineas shares one last smile with Phillip as he leaves the café, wondering what would come of his impulsive action as he’s swept away into the crowd.


End file.
